


Remembrance

by draculard



Category: IT (1990)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:34:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23157877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard
Summary: Richie's thirty-nine when he starts crying in the middle of his show.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 2
Kudos: 28
Collections: It's All in the Name (Take #1)





	Remembrance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reeby10](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reeby10/gifts).



Richie’s sixteen and drunk off his ass when someone asks him who his first crush was. The answer, “Your mom,” goes without saying. Someone passes him a joint; whoever asked the question laughs and moves away, already starting some other conversation.

And Richie, zitty and bone-thin with thick glasses taking up most of his face, stays still for only a moment longer before lurching to the nearest trash can to puke. He wipes his mouth; there are a few catcalls, but nobody takes it seriously  — it’s a party, everybody’s expecting someone to puke.

Only it’s not the alcohol that did it to him, Richie’s sure of it. It’s that tumbling upside-down flutter he gets in his stomach sometimes; it’s the tightening of his chest and throat he’s too familiar with.

Who was his first crush? He can’t remember the name, but he knows it’s a secret, knows it’s something he can’t tell. He thinks of all the girls he knows, remembers belatedly that he didn’t know them when he was a child. He tries to conjure up the girls he knew in  — in  — in his hometown, but his brain stutters, the faces in his mind stay vague.

Maybe he’s  _ never _ had a crush, then, Richie decides. It gnaws at him, but there’s no other way to explain it.

He’s simply never felt that way before.

* * *

Richie’s thirty when a Soapbox Derby commercial comes on the radio and, inexplicably, he crashes his car. He can’t explain it afterward; he knows he jerked the wheel to the left, he knows he slammed his foot down on the accelerator; he remembers staring wide-eyed at the fire hydrant, knowing he was about to hit it but unable to stop in time.

What he can’t remember is why. For a moment  — just a moment  — he smells the faint but unmistakable scent of citrus and sawdust; for a moment, he can almost see his hands  — a child’s hands, his fingers wrapped in Band-Aids, his knuckles scraped  — working alongside someone else, holding the wall of a soapbox car in place while the other boy positioned a nail.

He remembers a hammer rising up, wobbling, too heavy for the other kid’s thin wrists. He remembers saying,  _ Careful, Eds, wouldn’t want to _ —

Wait a minute,  _ what _ was that name?

Richie sits in a damaged car, his fingers wrapped around the steering wheel, his lips parted. He doesn’t see the cars stopping around him, the people coming over to check. He tries to remember the words he just thought and can’t conjure them up.

What was that goddamn name?

* * *

He’s thirty-eight and it all clicks into place.

He’s thirty-eight and everything makes sense.

* * *

He’s thirty-nine when he starts crying in the middle of his show. The mic is on; he’s on air for all of Los Angeles to hear. He clamps both hands over his mouth, muffles his sobs as best he can; tears stream down his face and over his fingers; his shoulders shake; he can’t breathe.

Blindly, he reaches out, presses a button, mutes the mic and puts some music on. It’s Barry Manilow; this makes him cry harder. Hoarse, wounded cries. He’s crying worse than he did when his mother died and he can’t say why.

His manager comes in minutes later, finds Richie on the floor looking for his washed-out contacts, eyes still red, cheeks flushed, fingers trembling as he feels around for the almost-invisible lenses.

“Richie, man,” his manager breathes, “what the hell?”

All Richie can do is give him a jerky, one-shouldered shrug. His jaw is clenched tight to keep himself from crying. Tears slide silently down his face. He finds one contact and balances it in the palm of his hand, staring at it blankly. He has no idea what to do next.

He looks down at it and for just a second  — a trick of the light  — he sees a scar on the palm of his hand.

“Seriously, man,” his manager says.

Derry, says a voice in his head. Eds.

Meaningless words. Might as well be gibberish to him, but just thinking about them makes it feel like a wound has opened up on the left side of his chest.

“I have no fucking idea,” Richie says, shaking his head. “I can’t remember why it even started.”


End file.
